


Sunday Roast

by CircularShades



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Eating, Food Kink, M/M, Non-Sexual Kink, Snakes can unhinge their jaws, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-04-23 01:40:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19141012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CircularShades/pseuds/CircularShades
Summary: Aziraphale had been excited to have Crowley over for a meal, the way humans do. He hadn't imagined that, in private, Crowley wouldn't eat anything at all like a human does. A non-sexual belly stuffing/expansion story.





	Sunday Roast

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Воскресное жаркое](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20308816) by [HeathrowLiss (LollyBomb95)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LollyBomb95/pseuds/HeathrowLiss)



Aziraphale felt stuck, like the second hand on a watch trying desperately to tick only to spring back to where it'd started. He kept wondering, in a startled, sputtering sort of way, whether he might have seen this coming. He'd only left the room to go and get the carving implements for the goose, the centerpiece and main course of the meal he'd prepared, just for him and Crowley. He'd seen, as he left, that Crowley had been undoing the buttons of his vest. This had registered as unusual, but not particularly  _odd_ , and so Aziraphale had noticed without thinking anything of it.

He'd come back to find the platter empty, and Crowley, with his mouth open wider than the limits of a normal human body, and the leg bones of the goose still sticking out past his lips. Crowley's neck had been one big bulge, the wider part of the bird having already passed his throat. Aziraphale had watched in already-frozen shock as Crowley had made a sort of... hiccuping motion, and the leg bones slid all the way inside his mouth. A couple more of those convulsions, and his rib cage had seemed to lift up almost like a garage door as the goose pushed past it. The whole mass of the bird wound up stuffed inside Crowley's stomach, bowing out his normally-flat belly and stretching the fabric of his t-shirt.

Crowley let out a soft burp and turned one hand over in front of his face — there was quite a bit of juice still glistening on his fingers. One more tick of the clock, and Aziraphale came to grips with the fact that it had happened. If he _could_ have done anything about it at any point, the moment had passed. The only thing he could do now was comment.

"You weren't _supposed_ to eat the _whole thing_ in _one gulp_!"

Crowley looked up from examining his hand, and had the utter audacity to look surprised himself."Were we supposed to split it?"

"I hadn't even _carved it_ yet!"

"I don't need my food cut down into dainty little pieces. Did you forget I'm a serpent?"

"No - but..." Aziraphale looked down at the oversized knife and fork he was still holding upright, at attention and ready for a task they could no longer perform. "...I meant for this to be a social occasion, you know. Like humans do. There's a ritual to it. You're meant to... take time, make conversation. It's a _meal._ It doesn't work if you've already swallowed the entire main course."

He hadn't been certain there was anything more to say after that, though even if there was, Aziraphale cut himself off there. Because Crowley was making a face, his lip curling while he shifted in his seat, his one clean hand tugging at the waistband of his jeans.

"M'fine," he said when he noticed Aziraphale noticing, even while his hand kept roaming around, trying to make himself comfortable. "Jeans got a bit tight."

Aziraphale staved off the impulse to point out that Crowley's jeans were _always_ a bit tight. He knew what Crowley was actually getting at. He could hear the leather of Crowley's belt creaking as he worked to undo it.

The belt fell open. Crowley pushed a sigh through his nose and made one more twist with his fingers, popping the button of his jeans loose, then rubbing a hand across his distended middle. Aziraphale's lips twitched into a frown at the sight, before he finally found the mental strength to lower his hands and place the utensils just so down on the table.

"Better?" He couldn't help the clipped tone, and he decided not to feel sorry for it. The whole _goose_...

Crowley had sat back in his chair with his hand resting on top of his stomach. Now he was looking back across the table with eyebrows arched high over his shades. "You're really upset about this."

"It's just," Aziraphale frowned, "I put a lot of work into it, Crowley."

"I did taste it. It was nice. Was that pink peppercorn around the outside?" Crowley sucked a bit of juice off the hand that still needed cleaning, then reached for a napkin. "I know you wanted it to be special. But we're not out in public. I didn't think I needed to — play-act at being human. I could eat more. If you still feel like making conversation." Hands cleaned, he lifted up the closest side dish to him: a small wicker basket filled with fluffy, bready puddings. "Yorkshire?"

Aziraphale pressed his lips together. The rest of the food _was_ still perfectly good. If the whole affair needn't be ruined after all... Gingerly, he placed himself in his seat across from Crowley, then nodded, and accepted the basket. In the still-tense silence, his eyes flicked down over Crowley's torso. Thousands of years, and he'd never seen Crowley do anything like that. Not once.

He wondered if the demon would ever stop finding ways to surprise him. He picked a Yorkshire pudding from the basket, offered it back to Crowley. "Are you... comfortable?"

"So long as I wanna be. You know how it goes."

"I suppose I do forget you're a serpent, sometimes." Aziraphale reached for the steamed cabbage, glancing across the spread, partly as an excuse to keep his eyes downcast. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well. I... don't make a point of broadcasting it, these days." Aziraphale knew that tone — it was about as good as a demon could do for _I forgive you_. He looked up again to see Crowley peering into the bowl of potatoes. "Why'd you make so much?"

"I was following the recipe. It's normally a — family thing."

"No point in mentioning you could've just miracle'd however much you wanted into existence."

Aziraphale knew that tone, too. Crowley always voiced his exasperation when Aziraphale showed a fondness for doing things the hard way. And he always stuck around to watch Aziraphale do it anyway.

Aziraphale let the smile tug at his lips. "None in the least."

* * *

 

They made conversation. Bit by bit, the initial misunderstanding melted away. After long enough, the only reminder of the incident was the fact that, food-wise, the meal wasn't quite complete. If Crowley felt ashamed of what he'd done in any way, it was only because Aziraphale wouldn't get to taste the goose himself. It  _had_ been rather delicious.

As was the rest of it. Which was novel, actually, because it wasn't gourmet, but it was still — and Crowley had rarely, if ever, had a use for this word —  _scrumptious._ The potatoes were buttery, the puddings were perfectly creamy inside, the green beans still a little bit toothsome. The cabbage was all right. Crowley didn't have a lot of experience with this sort of food, but he had the instinctive sense that steamed cabbage was usually only ever  _all right._ As a low point, it could've been a lot worse.

He didn't make the conscious decision to eat everything, other than what was on Aziraphale's plate, until he realized he was starting on his third Yorkshire. He was enjoying the company, and the food, so thoroughly that he didn't feel any particular need to stop. Although, this time, Crowley elected to check before making assumptions.

"You should tell me if you have your sights set on leftovers, because I could keep going."

"Leftovers weren't  _specifically_ part of the planning," Aziraphale replied, in that delicately playful way of his. Crowley went as far as tearing the pudding in half before folding one piece into his mouth and crunching through the crispy outside, letting the melty middle roll over his tongue. Chewing wasn't actually a complete waste of time.

It had been at least several centuries before he'd engaged in this sort of overindulgence. For one thing, he was so much more often facilitating sin than committing it; the point was to get humans to succumb to their baser urges, not to enjoy himself. For another, Crowley's taste when it came to getting gluttonous landed strongly in the boozy category. There was something uniquely pleasurable about this, though: a few minutes after swallowing the goose, his physical body had started giving off signals of satisfaction. Because Crowley was able to allow his skin to stretch, well beyond the limits of an actual human form, the feeling never gave way to pain. He just kept feeling satisfied — full, but pleasantly so, even when his stomach was so distended it was threatening to tear his shirt. Aziraphale didn't so much as blink when Crowley tugged the hem of it up past his navel, and made one more adjustment to his jeans, giving the zipper the slight encouragement it needed to part almost to the bottom.

Swallowing the goose whole had left something of an impression of it on the surface of his skin. Taking his time with the rest of it had caused the creases and bumps to fill out into a rounder shape. By the end of the meal, there was great, heavy ball resting between Crowley's chest and his hips, a curve of flesh ballooning from the bottom of his shirt to his undone jeans.

"All right. I'll say it," he announced, as he swallowed the very last bit of potato. "That was a lot better than your magic act."

Aziraphale seemed to bask in the compliment. "I'm so glad you enjoyed it."

"Seriously. If you could do human magic as well as that — it'd still be pointless, but I'd complain about it a lot less."

Aziraphale's eyebrows lifted, as if to say  _point taken_ , though Crowley knew if the point were actually taken, he'd never have to endure coin tricks again.

"Care for dessert?"

Crowley hummed out a sigh. He was long past ready to lay himself out somewhere and digest for a week, but... "You never mentioned dessert."

"Pavlova." Aziraphale's eyes were practically sparkling.

* * *

 

Crowley had abandoned his jacket and vest entirely after moving to the back of the bookshop. He'd waddled more than walked to get there, his belly too heavy over his hips for them to do their usual slinking. Aziraphale had offered to help him make the journey, but Crowley had brushed away the offer. Aziraphale was already being generous enough to take up space in his storeroom. Crowley  _wasn't_ able to stop Aziraphale from putting together a nest of pillows for him to rest on — he could only stand by and assert that a good chair was all he needed, while Aziraphale insisted on doting.

But the pillows were incredibly comfortable. Crowley practically trailed off mid-sentence as he settled down in them, falling into a state of trace — not quite awake, not asleep, his whole body flooded with that sense of being satisfied. Full, heavy, cozy, and relatively safe.

It did take almost a week for Crowley to return to what had become his normal shape. He remained utterly sedentary and half-asleep for a good part of it, sometimes waking to soothe his busy stomach by rubbing his palm over the skin. In the moments when he was fully awake, and in danger of getting bored being surrounded by all these  _books_ , there was always Aziraphale to talk to. The conversation of one afternoon wound up extended throughout the days.

Neither of them mentioned that Crowley could have quite easily sped the digestive process up for himself if he wanted to. There was no actual reason to spend an entire week lying in one place — except for the company.


End file.
